


Priestess

by thedevilchicken



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Abduction, Comeplay, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Forced to enjoy it, Gang Rape, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Content, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Paris took her hands and knelt and said, "You are more beautiful than Aphrodite." She did not understand the danger those words put her in.





	Priestess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts).



Helen dwells in Aphrodite's temple. 

This is her place. While the war rages without, she is the shade that haunts this temple's quiet halls. She is priestess and she is sacrifice. She is concubine. 

The goddess provides for her: there is food on the altar every morning; there is a bed to rest her head at night; there is clothing fit for a queen to wear. Helen is the goddess's most prized possession. She is kept safe from the bloodshed she knows is outside. The fighting will not touch her, but she is not grateful.

Men come to the temple. They come daily, these new pilgrims, and Aphrodite chooses for her. Some days only one will be admitted, and he'll be tall and he'll be strong and he'll be beautiful, and he'll remind her of her Trojan prince even as he strips her of her clothes. He'll remind her of the man she thinks she loved once, even as he takes her. It is not love.

Men come to the temple. Some days, the goddess lets in three or five or ten, one after the other, and their skin is slick from the Trojan heat and their hands are slick from Trojan blood, and when the day is over, Helen steps down into the baths and washes their Greek semen from her thighs. In the morning, Aphrodite will have cleansed her more than any waters ever could. She starts each day anew.

Men come to the temple and they wait on the tall stone steps beside the entranceway to see which ones of them are chosen. They step between the pillars to see which are repulsed and which can then progress inside. Some stride in brashly, brazenly, naked but for sandals at their feet, to the roaring applause of their comrades there outside; they fuck her against walls and on floors, bent double over Aphrodite's altar as though sex is the offering they've brought her. Some come in hesitant, unsure, and they touch her with faltering hands. They press their mouths between her thighs as though a hundred men haven't been there before them, like she hasn't dripped with come. 

None of them are ever Paris, who must wish to rescue her if he's still living, but Helen knows the goddess won't permit it. None of them are ever Hector, who so loves Andromache that he could not bear to put his cock inside another woman, even her. They are all Greeks but none of them are ever Agamemnon, who she hates, and who would fuck her just to prove a point. None of them are ever Menelaus, either, though she looks for him sometimes; she has been naive but she does not believe that she will ever see him. If he comes, she knows that he will be denied. 

Helen is naive, but not naive enough to think the war's for her. She was just the pretext. She was not the cause. 

When the siege began, that was how she understood it; the husband that she didn't love had come for her, and brought with him all of Greece to take her home to Sparta. But when Hector said her face had launched a thousand ships, she did not believe he meant it as a compliment. 

Others said that she was the most beautiful woman living in the world. Others said that she was just as beautiful as a goddess living there amongst them. Paris took her hands and knelt and said, "You are more beautiful than Aphrodite," and she blushed because that _was_ a compliment. 

Helen was naive. As she saw herself then in Paris's eyes, she thought perhaps what he'd said was true. As she saw herself in Paris's eyes, she didn't understand the danger those words had put them in. 

Aphrodite came for her that night as they were sleeping. The goddess blazed as brightly as the sun in all her anger, and there was no comparison. 

Men come to the temple. Some days, only one will be admitted; some days, the goddess lets in three or five or ten. Today, there are three. 

They come inside together and she hears them walking down the narrow hall that leads to Aphrodite's shrine, through the dark to where she's bathed in flickering torchlight. They're soldiers, broad and tanned and coarse, and when they see her they abandon all their arms to the floor with a clatter of metal on stone. They strip, their bodies white under their tunics in stark contrast with their sun-soaked limbs. Every inch of Helen is pale. The Trojan sunlight cannot touch her here, nor has it since that night.

The first one tears her dress wide open; the second one pulls it from her shoulders; the third one pushes her down to her knees on the ground. The first one slaps her, calls her _whore_ ; the second laughs out loud; the third one feeds her the length of his cock, pushing in until she chokes on it. They all laugh then. She knows how this goes. 

There is no surprise in her as they push her lower, onto her hands as well as knees. She expects it when the first one rubs his cock between her thighs, against her lips, when he pushes in and fucks her with it. She expects the third one's cock back in her mouth, how he forces it into her throat until she gags on it, until she swallows. She expects the second standing there, his fist around his cock, laughing as he strokes himself. The hot spill of his semen on her back does not startle her. There is no amazement as the bitter taste of the first soldier's come fills her mouth. When the third one pulses in her, when he pulls out and she feels his semen drip, it is no kind of revelation. 

They are not the first, and they will not be the last; this is how she serves her goddess.

When they leave her, she will bathe. She will wash them away and she will douse the torches and she will retire. She will sleep. And when dawn comes, so will Aphrodite. 

Helen knows if she were entirely human she would have died already. The waters with which the goddess washes her each day are scalding, like flames to burn out her impurities, and Helen screams and screams but will endure. In the morning, the goddess will wash her clean and heal her of her injuries, and then she'll shrug aside her dress and she is beautiful beneath it, beyond all compare. She is immortal. She is divine. She is desire itself. 

In the morning, the goddess will touch her, and Helen yearns for it. She yearns for her mouth and for her fingertips, for her smooth skin and the fall of her golden hair on her skin that's warm as soft as sunlight. That night when Aphrodite took her, she was afraid, but not for long; in the temple, on her knees before her, naked for her, Helen could feel nothing but her lust. In the temple, on her back with Aphrodite's mouth between her thighs, with Aphrodite's perfect fingers pushed up deep inside her, she struggled but in vain. She did not give herself willingly, but she did give herself.

In the morning, it will last for hours until the goddess has no wish for more. Then, and only then, will the first of the men outside be chosen. He will come to her, Helen who was of Troy, of Sparta, of Greece, Helen who is of this temple, and he'll do exactly as he pleases. he will slap her with his hand or with his cock, come on her face or her breasts or come inside her, or there'll be two of them or ten of them, all laughing round her while they paint her pretty skin with semen. She is the most beautiful woman living in the world. She is Aphrodite's whore.

This is her punishment. She knows that she deserves it. She hates it and she welcomes it. 

The same force that keeps men out who are not chosen is the force that's keeping Helen here. She cannot leave this place. And, to her shame, she has no wish to.


End file.
